


If You Remember Me

by Chiefjolras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:15:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefjolras/pseuds/Chiefjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John stays a weekend at his sister's, Sherlock gets irritated and wonders why he hasn't been in touch, until a text message stuns him into silence.  For the first time in years, Sherlock is terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Remember Me

He glanced at his phone for the billionth time, his thumbs dancing over the  
keyboard. A weekend at Harry's house, and all of a sudden, John wasn't talking to  
him anymore.  
'Idiot. I'm bored and Anderson's irritating me.  
SH'  
All day. Did the man not realise just how infuriated Mrs Hudson was? And how bored  
he was... And worried, although he won't admit it...  
A glance at his watch. Half seven in the evening. And- a buzz. Finally! Sherlock  
pulled out his phone, and opened the message:  
'Sherlock, this is Harry. John's in hospital. He had a heart attack and hit his  
head on the bathroom sink. He's not conscious.'

Sherlock stared at the screen for about a minute, rereading the text. This wasn't  
possible. Another buzz.  
'You can't come. Mum's in tears.'  
'Tough. SH'  
'Seriously, Sherlock, stay at Baker Street. I'll keep you updated, and you can visit  
another time.'  
'Are you there now?'  
'Yes.'  
'When will he wake up?'  
'The doctors say tomorow.'  
'Can I come then?'  
'No, Sherlock! The day after, maybe.'

This was not possible. Not at all. How could John have possibly hit his head on the  
sink in Harry's bathroom? He... actually, his height changed things. A wound to the  
head. A heart attack. A horribly disturbing thought lingered in the back of his  
mind. What would he remember?

***

Sherlock stormed through the hospital doors, leaving a very flustered Harry to  
explain to the nurses. He burst through into John's room, and glared at him.  
"You're an idiot, John. Do you realise how boring Baker Street is without-"  
"I-I'm sorry... Who are you?"  
Sherlock, for once, was stuck for words.  
"What?"  
"Who are you? If you don't mind me asking..."  
"You don't know who I am?"  
John shook his head, "N-no, I'm sorry..."  
Sherlock's mouth hung uncharacteristically open as he looked from the doctor to Harry  
and back.  
"Are you alright, sir?"  
"SIR?! You really don't know who I am..." He breathed.  
"I don't.... who are you?"  
"Sherlock Holmes. I'm your friend... You're my friend."  
"O-kay..."  
"John, that's fairly big..." Harry interrupted, "He doesn't have many friends."

***

He sat down in the armchair next to the bed, tucking his legs up in front of him, his  
fingers steepled against his lips as John slept. Another droplet of water hit his  
scarf, and his hand flicked away to wipe his cheek dry. How curious, the fact that  
laughing and crying use identical muscles, and yet, the actions are nothing alike.   
He'd not cried in longer than he could remember, and he never assumed that he would  
because his only friend forgot him. 'Heartbreak', as stereotypical teenage girls  
called it, hurt an awful lot more than they made it out to.

Sherlock stayed by his friend's side for weeks, declining any offer of food, only  
sleeping while John was at therapy. He'd turned his phone off long ago. He didn't  
wish to be disrupted by cases. They weren't important. They didn't give as much of  
a thrill as John saying that he remembered something.  
Their friendship was returning slowly, but Sherlock knew, Sherlock always knew, that  
John didn't trust him. Who would? They'd known eachother for about a year now, and  
they were flatmates, but nothing other than friends. Who would believe that?   
Mycroft didn't. John was a sensible man, not one to make rash decisions. He didn't  
believe Sherlock. He humoured him.

His smiles were broken. Not quite whole. Just like him. The memories he had forged  
with John were now one-sided, and none of them mattered if John didn't know it. But  
the Doctor tried. He smiled and laughed, and nodded when Sherlock told him stories.   
Said that his blogs 'rang bells', but his lies were pointless. Clearly he had  
forgotten just how well the detective knew him.  
Molly had walked in once to visit. John was sleeping, but Sherlock was there, just  
as he always was. His forehead was rested on his knees that were drawn up to his  
chest, and he was shaking. The pathologist stood for a moment, utterly stunned at  
seeing the usually cold, detatched man whom she knew reduced to such a being. She  
sat next to him, murmuring words of consolation and making the situation horribly  
awkward, and yet, even Sherlock didn't have the motivation to tell her to stop  
talking.  
She, in turn, left too, and more visitors came and went. John's family included. He  
shouted at them, telling them to leave him alone, that he didn't know who they were,  
and yet all the while, Sherlock sat by his side, semi-visible. Trusted for reasons  
neither of them knew. Such a man. Would John really grow to tolerate him again?   
Had he even tolerated him before? The gun-shots, the violin, the impossible  
requests... Who could live with such a person?  
And yet John had. Would he once more? At the moment, the doctor smiled at Sherlock,  
made jokes, was friendly. But he was like that to his family, too, until he screamed  
at them to leave. Would Sherlock's time come too? To be shunned as some fake? Was  
the empty, broken man at his side too hopeful to see the truth?

****

Words echoed through Sherlock's mind as he stared at the blank white walls, and his  
mind drew them out. He could see entire conversations written over the walls and  
windows. Some were memories. Some were words that he wished he could say.  
Something Molly had said, "You look sad. When you think he can't see you."  
Back then, he had looked up from his microscope at his best friend, and assumed that  
she had meant the literal sense. Even if she had, Sherlock saw things differently  
now. John couldn't see him the way that he could see John. John's vision started  
from weeks ago. There was nothing before that. He saw universes compared to John.   
The words finally seemed to make sense, and they changed somehow on the wall. Bigger  
now. More significant.  
Sherlock's bones were stiff, and his elbow cracked painfully as he reached sideways  
for the notepad and pen on the table. He held the objects unfamiliarly- John was  
always the one to do the writing. He frowned, wondering how he could put this into  
words, but the fountain pen had already started scrawling across the page in  
elaborate spidery writing.  
"This is my note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?  
John. I told you once that heroes didn't exist. Well, I was wrong. You exist.  
I will only ask one thing of you. One thing only.

If you remember sometime. If you ever remember me.  
Don't forget.

You're my best friend.  
Still the only one in the world.

 

SH"

 

He stood up, folding the note and pressing it to the sleeping John's hands. He  
ached, and he stomach was hurting from being denied food for so long. He didn't  
care. The skeleton of a man walked to the window, and onto the balcony. He stood  
facing the hospital ward, and looked at his friend. I want you to be the last  
thing I see. He swallowed, his feet shuffling backwards until the small of his  
back hit against the metal railing.  
He may have been wrong, but in the last few moments he had before loosing sight of  
him forever, he could have sworn that John woke up. He reached his right hand out  
to him, wanting to stay, but knowing that it would always be a half life without the  
John he remembered. The John that remembered. The John that loved him back.

"Goodbye, John."

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, comments are welcome.


End file.
